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They had told him to watch the monster. Not to listen. That part had been made very clear.
Aric Provoss stood among the second rank of nobles, just behind the more established houses, close enough to see the dais without craning, far enough that no one of consequence would notice if his hands trembled. They did not tremble. He made certain of that. Stillness, like prayer, was a discipline.
The Crimson Palace was wrong. Not in the way he had expected, no rot, no lingering stench of death, no grotesque displays meant to shock or horrify. No. It was worse. It was beautiful. Crimson light poured through towering glass in fractured waves, gilding the chamber in something that felt almost sacred if one ignored the color. If one ignored what it represented. If one ignored who ruled here.
Aric shifted his weight slightly, careful, controlled. To his left, a representative of House Sashenstar leaned toward another, whispering behind a jeweled fan. To his right, a broad-shouldered man of Guthmere stock stood with arms folded, expression unreadable. They were all waiting. Even those who pretended they were not.
Aric had seen the pamphlets. He had heard the sermons. The Temple of Lathander did not deal in half-truths not in matters such as this. Vampires were abominations. Creatures that fed on the living. Creatures that twisted the natural order. Creatures that must be destroyed.
And yet...
The doors opened. Aric did not realize he had stopped breathing until the ache in his chest reminded him.
Astarion Ancunin did not enter like how the last tyrant Gortash did. He did not storm. He did not demand attention. He simply… took it. There was no crown upon his head. But there should have been. That was Aric’s first, unwelcome thought. Crimson and gold caught the light as he moved, every step measured, deliberate like a blade being drawn.
And beside him.
Aric’s breath hitched.
Her.
The Fey-born assassin. The slayer of the Dead Three’s chosen. The woman who had stood against the Elder Brain and won. Stories had a way of becoming exaggerated. Heroes grew taller in the telling. Monsters more grotesque. The truth was worse. She was not exaggerated. She was like something vast forced gently into the shape of a woman. Moonlight seemed to gather around her softening nothing, hiding nothing only revealing in a way Aric could not name.
She did not look at the crowd. She did not need to. Her luminous eyes that marked her as something other stayed looking ahead. Hair long and thick trailed behind her as smooth and deep as any shadow.
Aric swallowed. Hard. This is what you were sent to see, he reminded himself. This is what must be stopped.
They ascended the dais. They did not sit. That, more than anything, unsettled him. A king sits. A ruler claims the throne. A man who stands… invites judgment.
The silence that followed was not commanded. It simply… happened.
“Ten years.”
Aric had expected something monstrous. A hiss. A growl. Something unnatural to spill from the Crimson Duke. Instead the voice was… beautiful. Measured. Controlled. Human even..
Aric’s jaw tightened. Do not listen.
“Ten years since this city stood on the brink of annihilation.”
Do not listen.
“And ten years since it was saved.”
Saved. The word struck harder than it should have. Aric had not been here then. He had only heard the accounts. Contradictory. Embellished. Sanitized. But even the Temple did not deny the outcome. Baldur’s Gate still stood, it's people safe.
The speech continued, smooth as silk, sharp as glass. The Temple of Lathander was named, not with fear, but with something far more dangerous: dismissal.
“They speak of dawn as though it is something to be forced upon us.” Aric’s fingers curled. Blasphemy. And yet...no lightning struck. No divine fury answered. Only the quiet weight of a room listening.
Astarion stepped forward, and the room seemed to lean in. “I am a Duke of this city. I have honored that title. But titles…” the vampire continued softly, “are such fragile things. Little scraps of paper held up against the storm.”
Aric’s breath slowed. This was it. The turn.
“I find myself growing rather tired of illusions. Of a city fractured by a thousand petty banners all with roofs leaking in the rain.” Astarion’s gaze swept the room, and for a heartbeat, Aric felt the weight of it. “I did not save this city to watch it crumble beneath competing interests. Baldur’s Gate does not need four Dukes. It needs one will. One shelter to shield it from the coming storm.”
The room went still. The metaphor hung in the air, cold, final, and strangely comforting.
“And I am offering it one,” Astarion said, his, voice dropping to a velvet whisper. “You may stand beneath my banner. You will be protected. You will be elevated. You will be part of something that will outlast every fragile dynasty that came before it.”
Aric looked to the people around him. The merchant houses calculating, yes, but not afraid. The labor-bound families,watchful… hopeful? Even some of the old blood were leaning in. They weren't recoiling. It was like they were seeking the shade of his offered umbrella.
“You may stand beneath my banner… or you may stand alone in the storm.”
Aric did not realize his hands had clenched until his nails bit into his palms. This was the choice. This was the line. Faith… or survival. The harsh, burning light of Lathander… or the cool, absolute shadow of the Crimson Duke.
Aric exhaled slowly. Watch the monster, they had told him. He was. But the problem, the true problem was that the monster wasn't offering a cage. He was offering a roof.
And Aric, despite everything he had been taught, was starting to feel very, very cold.